Breakfast Woes and Wows

One of my favorite things to eat in Spain is actually a breakfast dish. I love the tostada con tomate, which is grated tomato on toasted bread with some olive oil and salt. Although it sounded insane to me the first time I ever had one it’s since become absolutely my favorite thing about waking up in the morning here in Spain. I’m pretty sure I’ve waxed eloquent on my favorite breakfast before (see this post about eating out in Spain). 

The problem is… I eat low-carb/keto which works really well for me, and I really appreciate that way of life. But not being able to have my tostada sometimes really bothers me. 

Knowing I was heading out on vacation, I decided to allow myself the tostada every morning on the condition that I did exercise early in the morning. I was hoping at least the physical exertion would offset the carbohydrates.

So one morning in Antequera, I went to a bar recommended by a local and ordered my tostada con tomate.  I was particularly excited because I love the Antequeran bread mollete, which I often request in Madrid. And here I was in Antequera, so the mollete should be fresh!  The waitress brought me a little dish of tomato and a mollete.  And nothing else.  I waved her over.

“Could you bring me olive oil and salt, please?”  (which is HOW IT COMES USUALLY).

But I swear she rolled her eyes before huffing off and then finally bringing me the rest of the breakfast.  Her disgruntled attitude didn’t improve when I asked for something other than sugar for the coffee, either.

I tried again in Ronda.  Near the new bridge I found a restaurant advertising typical Andaluz dishes.  This waiter was very friendly (I was his only customer) and chatted quite a bit before bringing me my breakfast.  Two toasted breadsticks (“We don’t have mollete, sorry”) and some little plastic pre-packaged tubs of tomato.  I could’ve gotten that at McDonalds!

So I considered giving it up altogether.  This was getting more and more disappointing, and I was exercising A LOT.  But instead I contemplated what I might be doing wrong. Perhaps I was too close to the touristy areas, so I used google maps to find a café in the middle of a working class neighborhood.   

The cafe was not particularly picturesque.  A bold mural of sinking ships decorated one wall, in memory of Columbus.  A pile of newspapers sat at the entrance, and a little old man was perusing El Pais at the table near them.  Yes, this seemed like a nice workaday spot for my breakfast. 

The waitress who approached was in her 60’s and very smily, even with her mask on.  Good sign!  I asked first if the tomate was made in-house, and she gave me a very Spanish, “Claro!” Her indignation prompted me to tell her about the previous day’s plastic tubs, and she recoiled her horror.  “That’s so artificial!” She exclaimed.  I wholeheartedly agree, señora.  

She brought me my breakfast in short order, including a soft, fresh mollete and plenty of tomato (pictured above), and I enjoyed each bite. 

And the price, without tourism or fanfare attached was 2.50 euros—a small price to pay for happiness!